


I Think That You're My Best Friend

by byesexualniall



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-11 01:16:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16465904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byesexualniall/pseuds/byesexualniall
Summary: the one where Niall and Harry match on Raya, inspired by the news that Niall and Harry are both reportedly on the app.





	I Think That You're My Best Friend

It wasn’t his idea, really. He did it grudgingly, really. He’s only scrolling through because he’s drunk and bored, really. He doesn’t mean it. Really.

Everyone has left, and Niall is alone, bored, drunk, and surrounded by empty beer bottles with the TV still quietly murmuring in front of him, tossing the green and blue light from the rerun of some old golf tournament over his living room. Deo forgot to take his sweater home with him, but it’s balled up comfortably under Niall’s bad knee, giving him just the right kind of stretch, so he doesn’t text him to come pick it up. He’ll probably be back over tomorrow, anyway. If he isn’t too busy with his girlfriend.

It was only a week and a half after he ended things with Hailee that Tara suggested getting back on Raya. Niall remembers laughing, shaking his head, calling her nuts, saying he needs some time to himself before he starts dating again. And he remembers Tara grabbing his phone out of his hand, holding it up over his head and saying, “you’ve had time to yourself since December 2015, Niall.”

He let her do it, then. The idea of fighting over it made him feel stupid, and he knew he’d never open the app on his own anyway, so he let Tara have her way with it; he didn’t even bother to look over her shoulder or tell her which pictures he likes best of himself, seeing as he trusts her enough to dress him most days anyway.

But now, two weeks later, Niall’s drunk and bored and alone and all his mates have gone home early to spend time with their girlfriends and there’s nothing else to do, really, but have a quick scroll through Raya, strictly out of curiosity, to see who’s on.

Most of it is what he expects: Instagram models with long blonde hair, DJs, D-list celebrities posing in the VIP area of some dark Las Vegas club, a few people who he knows are in relationships now, who must’ve forgotten to delete the app. He feels bored and a little hollow swiping through it all, tossing pretty faces and perfect bodies to the left without bothering to read biographies or corny one liners. He told himself he wouldn’t get upset about this, but.

But there’s nothing, no one, of interest, really. He spots Hailee, he thinks, but he’s swiping too quickly to get a good look at her profile and, if he’s being honest with himself, he doesn’t actually want to find out. He’s beginning to think that the constant left-swipe is more of a workout for his thumb than anything else when green eyes and a lock of curly brown hair stop him in his tracks.

Harry.

His first thought is that the account must be a fake. But. Niall scrolls through the pictures, carefully, his stomach doing turns, and he knows it’s not. It’s almost impossible to make a fake Raya account and (he doesn’t know if this makes it better or worse) he’s never seen most of these pictures before.

Harry at his mum’s house—Niall recognizes the couch, the one Harry bought for Anne as a Valentine’s Day gift in 2014—with Dusty in his lap. Harry backstage, somewhere, leaning against a wall and cradling a steaming mug of tea. Harry beaming, cheeks red from the cold, dimple prominent, beanie pulled down low over his eyebrows, standing on the sidelines at a Packers game. Harry criss-cross applesauce on the floor of some apartment Niall’s never seen before, a plate of cookies in his lap and a his hair pulled back into a bun. Niall’s not sure why, but he feels like he might throw up. He also feels like he has to swipe right.

It’s what friends do, isn’t it? He’s seen Willie do it, laugh when he comes across his friends on Tinder, swipe right just to send them a cheeky message like “u up?” that’ll make for a good screenshot and a funny story the next time they hang out. It doesn’t mean anything. It would be weird of  him not to swipe. Right?

He pulls Harry’s picture to the right, slowly, deliberately, his thumb quivering a little bit. He’s being ridiculous. His whole body feels colder than it did before.

Harry’s photo hits the right corner of his screen and disappears. A heart pops up in its place, and that’s it.

Niall feels too hot all of a sudden, his leg jittery and, before he knows it he’s biting on the edge of his cuticle again. With his free hand he tosses his phone onto the other end of the couch, then he gets up, turns off the TV, and starts gathering the empty bottles off his table. He totes them all to the recycling bin in his kitchen and even bothers to wet a paper towel and wipe down the coffee table, clearing up the sticky bottle rings his friends and cousins left behind. He fixes up the pillows, fluffs up the cushions, and then stands there, staring at his couch and biting on his cuticle, for a full two minutes before he dares look at his phone.

Nothing.

It’s only 10pm, but Niall’s stomach hurts and his acid reflux is acting up and he decides it’s time for bed.

\--

Harry clambers into the back seat of the Range Rover, just barely managing to avoid stumbling over the pointed toe of his boot. The sound of the door slamming shut is a dull relief, the blacked out windows softening the camera flashes outside and allowing him to sink back into the leather seats, no longer concerned with what he looks like. He can’t believe people still want pictures of him stumbling out of clubs. After all this time.

The driver, some guy he doesn’t know, glances into the backseat to make sure Harry’s fully intact before he pulls away from the curb, sending paparazzi sprinting after them. Harry ignores it all, fiddling with the air con vent until it’s blowing cold, dry air directly onto his face.

He’s been trying to cut down on the amount of time he spends staring at screens, but. With nothing else to do, Harry fishes his phone out of his pocket and finds it overloaded with texts. Most, he ignores. He taps one back to Jeff, telling him yes, they’re still on for lunch tomorrow, and one to James Corden, too, a couple of hearts in response to the adorable picture of his three kids cuddling the four foot tall teddy bear he’d had couriered over today as a thank you for letting him sleep on their couch. He ignores the flood of “it was great to see you tonight” messages, and wonders, idly, if it’s bordering on time to change his number again.

Then there are the rest of his notifications: his hydration tracker prompting him to enter how many glasses of water he’s had today (ignore, not enough), a calendar alert reminding him that tomorrow is Gemma’s boyfriend’s birthday (ignore, he’ll call tomorrow), a couple of emails from his team about finding a new keyboardist (ignore, he’ll have to deal with that sober), and a push notification from Raya, telling him he has a new like.

Annoyed, Harry swipes to open it. Every time he goes to disable push notifications for this useless app he gets side tracked and forgets, and every day he gets some stupid notification that forces him to open the app in order to dismiss it. He’s beginning to think he should pull an Ed Sheeran, throw his phone into the Pacific Ocean and curse Gemma for forcing him to open an account so she could see which celebrities were single, when Raya loads and he almost drops the phone directly onto his brand new boots.

Darkening hair, still a little blonde at the tips. A smile so wide, so familiar, that Harry can almost hear the laugh that goes along with it. A white jersey with a tiny black ram on the left breast. Red cheeks and a pint of Guinness. It feels a little bit like he’s seen a ghost.

His thumb hovers over the notification and his car waits at a red light. Time stands still for a hundred years, until the light turns green, the car lurches forward, and Harry tells himself he’s being absurd. Friends always swipe right on each other.

So he doesn’t think about it and swipes right on Niall, ignoring the way his chest tightens. The screen explodes in hearts as “it’s a match!” flashes, too bright in the blacked out car. He’s drunk, though, and nothing matters, so he taps through when the app prompts him to send Niall a message.

_Fancy seeing you here._

Then Harry locks his phone, shoves it back into his pocket, and leans his forehead against the freezing cold window all the way back to his house.

\--

6:30am and Niall’s alarm is blaring loud and his eyelids might as well be glued together. His limbs feel like they each weigh 100 pounds and he swears to God he’s never having another drink ever again.

In the rush to get to the gym before 7, Niall leaves his phone on his bedside table. He listens to the radio in the car, works out so hard he almost throws up on his trainer, nearly falls asleep at the wheel on the way home, and passes out on his couch before he even makes it upstairs to shower. When he wakes up just after noon he’s sticky and sweaty and smells stale. And starving.

Thighs aching, Niall toes off his gym sneakers and pads into the kitchen, plush carpet squishing between his toes. It feels like it takes a week to get to the kitchen, half because he’s so sore and half because his house is so, so big, and so, so empty. He tries not to think about it though, flicking the TV on in the kitchen and letting the soothing sounds of a golf match white out his thoughts. He sets about making himself some eggs and some coffee, some toast and some butter, a handful of broccoli to appease his trainer next time he asks if Niall’s been prioritizing his vegetables. It sounds dumb as shit like that. Like something Harry would say.

Niall doesn’t think he can make it upstairs without eating something, genuinely worried that his legs might give out from under him. He expects there’ll only be one or two texts on his phone, anyway, maybe Deo with plans and his assistant with a thing or two for him to do. He can’t make himself care, really, so he eats. And he watches golf. And he drinks one cup of coffee, then another. He munches on a banana, decides fruit is just as good as veg, and tries not to let its mushy texture freak him out too much. Tries not to let the fact that he has nothing to do for the next week and a half freak him out too much.

A few months ago, when he set up his schedule to have these two weeks totally and completely free, he was imagining lazy days in bed with Hailee, playing with her hair, watching her ride him, teaching her golf, eating lunch in the backyard, doing a crossword puzzle every morning, existing, for once, like a normal person with a normal girlfriend and a normal life.

But then he and Hailee couldn’t keep the spark, couldn’t make time for each other with their busy schedules, couldn’t even enjoy their time together when she cancelled an E! News interview to be with him in New York before his show. And then Hailee said she wasn’t sure how she could make this work and then Niall said he wasn’t sure he _wanted_ to make this work and then she was gone. And Niall was alone. And he had two weeks, smack in the middle of his calendar, stark and empty and alone.

There are things he could do, he knows. But his friends are busy: Deo and his new girlfriend, Willie and his new job, and the rest of his friends, all back home in London and Ireland, all on a different time zone, all too busy to fly out and do nothing with Niall for ten days, even if he offers to pay for their flight.

He knows, of course, that Harry is in LA too. And that it’s been almost a year since they’ve both been in the same place at the same time. And that he could always call Harry, message him on WhatsApp if he’s changed his number, even email him, and ask him if he wants to get a drink, hit a few golf balls, jam, veg out on his couch, whatever. He knows he could do that. He just doesn’t know if he can.

Shower first, though, Niall decides. Before anything. So he clears up his dishes, places them haphazardly in the sink, and leaves the TV on as he wanders upstairs toward the bathroom. The muffled sound of the match from the kitchen reminds him of Louis and Zayn watching football in the hotel room next to his.

He lets the water in the shower burn him, as hot as he can stand it, so it feels like his skin is blistering, melting away the sweat and the exhaustion and the way he feels weird and slow and sad and alone. He stays under the spray until his skin turns red and his head starts to throb and it gets difficult to breathe, and when he stumbles out of the en-suite and into his bedroom he almost collapses from the change in temperature. His entire body is pulsing, and he barely manages to pull some boxers on before collapsing on his empty king sized bed like a moody teenager pissed off about his parents’ divorce.

He sleeps for half an hour, maybe, worn out and dehydrated, before he wakes up desperate for a drink of water.

There’s a glass on his bedside table and for the first time in what feels like weeks Niall thanks his earlier self, chugging the stale water like his life depends on it—come to think of it, he can’t actually remember the last time he drank just water. And so, hydrated, clean, and feeling marginally more alive than this morning, Niall remembers he hasn’t looked at his phone in sixteen hours.

It’s what he expects, really: a text from Deo about something or other, a WhatsApp message from Tara about getting lunch later this week, an email from his assistant about studio time after his vacation ends, and—oh.

A push notification from Raya. A new message.

His heart is hammering something fierce and Niall wants to slap himself, honestly, for the way he’s acting like his 12-year-old self getting a Myspace message from a girl. It’s just a DM, it might not even be Harry, it’s probably just some influencer looking to gain some followers, or some DJ who wants to collab or—or Harry. It’s Harry.

_Fancy seeing you here._

The message pops up next to a tiny, circular picture of Harry’s face, the one of him and Dusty on the couch, and Niall swallows the way it makes his heart jump. He paces once, twice, three times around the perimeter of his bedroom before he realizes the app has read receipts on, and, eyes closed, types out: _Tara made it for me ! Ha ha !_ and presses send.

He doesn’t expect a response right away. He’s sitting on the bed tapping out a reply to Tara when he gets one, though.

_But you’re using it, aren't you?_

It feels stupid, like. The way his heart is hammering, his hands are getting sweaty, the way he starts bouncing his leg and fighting the urge to bite his cuticle. It’s just Harry, for Christ’s sake. It’s been about a hundred years since he’s last seen him, sure, but it’s just Harry.

Harry, who’s been his best friend since those late nights on tour buses, sixteen years old and terrified of what was coming next, of adults who didn’t understand them, of losing a home that was suddenly a thousand miles away. Harry, who used to crawl into his bunk late at night when he couldn’t sleep, or when he knew Niall couldn’t sleep, and would curl up like a kitten in the tight, dark space, lulling Niall to sleep with his even, steady breath. Harry, who’d barge into his hotel room without asking, not caring if Niall was fresh out of the shower naked, had taken a girl back with him, or was fast asleep. Harry, who would go out and get McDonald’s at two in the morning because he knew no one would spot him at that hour, and would always bring something back for Niall. Harry, who confided in Niall and Niall alone about his feelings for Louis back in the early days, his feelings later when it all went south, his feelings about going solo, writing his own album, the call he got from Christopher Nolan, long before the word _hiatus_ ever touched anyone’s lips.

Harry, who didn’t come to Niall’s show in London. Or LA. Harry, who hasn’t spoken a word to Niall since Niall emailed him to say he’d enjoyed _Dunkirk_ and congratulations and Harry’d emailed back, at three in the morning, _Thank you very much, Niall_ and that was it. Harry, who managed to drop off the face of Earth while still being just about the biggest name on Earth. Harry, who’d broken his heart in a way Niall still doesn’t quite understand, didn’t expect, doesn’t want to think about.

Just Harry.

Niall’s pacing again, thinking about how to respond, when his phone rings in his hand and, just for a second, he feels like he might die. He sees Harry’s dumbshit face on the caller ID, a selfie he’d taken wearing one of Niall’s snapbacks in 2013, drops the phone, stubs his toe hard against the corner of his dresser, swears as he picks it up. Harry’s laughing on the other end.

“Nice to hear from you, too.” is what Harry’s saying when Niall finally gets the phone to his ear.

“Hazza!” is Niall’s lame, pathetic, totally casual response. His foot is absolutely throbbing.

“I hear we’re in the same city, Niall.” Harry sounds like he’s standing a mile away from his phone and shouting in its general direction. He must be driving.

“So we are.”

“Lunch, then?”

“I—what?”

“Lunch. That meal we have in the middle of the day. Wanna get it?”

“I—it’s nearly 3pm, Harry.” The sight of the clock almost makes Niall fall down; he can’t remember a single thing he’s actually done today. The gym feels like a lifetime ago.

“I was meant to have lunch with Jeff,” Harry is saying, still a thousand miles away from Niall. “But he had to cancel for a work thing. So I went for a walk instead, but now I’m hungry, and you’re here, so I figured. But if you’re busy—”

“No,” Niall hopes Harry doesn’t pick up on how eager, desperate he sounds. “Not busy. Bored out of me skull, actually.”

“Hungry?” Harry asks, and Niall thinks, just maybe, he can hear the smile on his face.

“Starvin’.”

“Brilliant. Shall we do sushi? There’s this new place I drove past this morning on my way to the gym—”

“No, Haz—”

“No sushi? Oh, it’s your acid reflux, isn’t it? That’s fine, you pick the place and I’ll get a salad. I need to have some more vegetables today, anyway.”

“No, no, sushi is fine, mate. It’s not the food. I just don’t think—I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to go, like, out into the world together, you know? Someone’s gonna see it, someone’s gonna take a picture, we’re gonna end up on Tumblr and all the sodding reunion rumors will spark up again and… I know you don’t want to have to deal with that in interviews. Maybe we should just do takeaway at one of our houses? Just to play it safe?”

Harry’s thoughtful for a moment before he says, “good point. I’m already in the car, so why don’t I come over yours? I’ll stop and pick up that sushi. It’s okay for your stomach?”

Niall bites back the smile on his face, hopes Harry can’t hear it in his voice, says nothing about the fact that he’s never mentioned his acid reflux to Harry before, that it didn’t even become an issue until about two months after they stopped talking, that he’s only ever really talked about it in interviews and to his friends, and instead just says, “sounds great, mate. See you soon.”

\--

Harry shows up at Niall’s door 45 minutes later dressed in an oversized sweater, leggings, and some ugly loafers that look like they could belong to Niall’s grandpa. He’s sure they cost $800. Toting two bags of sushi and a case of beer, Harry beams when Niall lets him in.

“Are those leggings?” Is just about the only thing Niall can manage to say. His jaw almost hits the floor.

“Cool, right? Very breathable,” says Harry, stepping past Niall and into the house like it’s his own, like he belongs, like he’s actually been here before. He drops the sushi and the beer on the table in the front hall and then wanders off, Niall rushing to catch up.

“It’s a thousand degrees outside, Haz,” Niall shuts the door behind him, hates how natural Harry looks in his home, reminds himself that he’s like that everywhere.

“I know. That’s why they’re breathable.”

“But your jumper…” Niall’s not sure why he’s speaking like a nervous kid called into the Head Teacher's office while Harry is meandering around his house like it hasn’t been well over a year since they’ve seen each other. The balance feels off in a way it never used to between them.

Harry looks down at his chest, as if he’d forgotten what he put on his top half today. Then he shrugs, “I liked it. The air con’s on everywhere, anyway.”

There’s nothing Niall can say to that, so he flounders, but Harry, wandering around the house and touching everything, doesn’t seem to notice. Harry wanders into the living room, Niall behind him, and walks along the shelf that displays the more sentimental of Niall’s awards, some in One Direction’s name, and a precious few in his own. Harry traces his fingers over an AMA, then turns back around, smiles, and says, “your place looks great.”

“Erm. Thanks.”

“Why are you looking at me so weird?” Harry pushes a curl out of his eyes, and Niall realizes he hasn’t seen Harry’s hair this short, in person, in years. “Is it the leggings?”

“No, Haz, I don’t give a shit about the leggings. Just weird seeing you, s’all. It’s been… a while.”

“It has, hasn’t it?” Says Harry, after an uncomfortably long silence.

“Yeah. Has.”

“A lot has happened.”

“Yeah. Has.”

They both pause, but there’s so much more Niall wants to say hanging in the air, like. _It’s been longer than a while, and you’ve starred in films, you’ve written an album, you’ve toured the world, and so have I. And you haven’t spoken to me in a year but I haven’t spoken to you either. And you’ve been so out, so proud, in a way that you never would’ve been when we were kids, and I’ve been so proud of you, and I don’t know if you’ve been proud of me but apparently you’ve been keeping tabs on me because you know about my acid reflux and I don’t know how that’s possible and have you listened to my album? Do you know which songs are about you? Do you know that I don’t resent you for being the breakout star? Do you know how wrecked you left me by leaving us all behind?_

But instead of all that he just stands there until Harry reaches out and touches his wrist gently, says, ‘don’t bite,’ and Niall suddenly realizes that he’d had his cuticles in his mouth again. He drops his hand, and Harry does the same.

‘Shall we eat?’ asks Harry, and Niall’s not sure his stomach can handle it, but he’ll do anything to keep Harry around so he says yes, please, bloody starvin’, and Harry heads toward the kitchen like he knows where he’s going.

\--

He feels a bit better after eating, Niall. Fuller, at least, less likely to collapse at any given moment. More comfortable, too, laughing louder and feeling his shoulders relax. Or maybe that has more to do with the way Harry is lounging on the opposite end of his couch, long legs sprawled out, feet on the coffee table, the hem of his jumper lifted up just so, just enough that Niall can see those stupid laurels peeking out over the top of his leggings. He’s always hated those tattoos; hated how he could never get close enough to them.

Harry’s settled into Niall’s home like he’s been here all along, his things already strewn around, loafers under the table, wallet and keys on the kitchen counter, phone lost somewhere between the couch cushions. All at once it’s like he never left Niall’s life—even though he’s only been back in it for two hours. This is all so familiar—the comfortable silence between them, the way their feet are angled toward each other on the coffee table, the occasional sound of Harry humming, of Niall’s stomach digesting—that he could easily trick himself into thinking this never ended.

But it did, is the thing. It did end. And it was Harry’s idea to end it.

His feelings cycle, Niall’s. Sometimes he understands, _gets it_ , thinks it makes perfect sense that Harry wanted to quit while they were ahead and tackle this solo thing—after all, they all knew they wouldn’t be at the top for much longer. And sometimes he’s mad, furious, swearing to himself that he’ll never speak to Harry again for making them all give up the only constant in their lives so he could go on to bigger and better things and leave them in the dust—but then he has to remind himself that he can’t stop speaking to someone who’s already stopped speaking to him. And sometimes, he’s thankful that Harry wanted to do this, because he’s grown into this solo thing, he’s learned how to feel confident on his own, how to make music on his own, how to do interviews and press junkets and late nights on tour buses all on his own. And sometimes, most of the time, he convinces himself that he just doesn’t care.

“Ni?”

He looks up. Harry’s been talking to him. He’s green eyes and hair sticking up in a hundred different directions and worry lines where his dimples should be and he looks exhausted, Christ, and older, too, but he looks like Niall’s best friend.

“Do you have any socks?” Harry’s repeating himself. “My feet are cold.”

He notices Harry’s folded himself up into a pretzel, tucked his feet under his legs to keep them warm; Niall tries to ignore the way it makes his heart tighten. He’s not sure what’ll come out of his mouth if he tries to speak, so Niall just nods and makes to get up, rush upstairs, maybe splash some cold water on his face, and fetch his coziest pair of socks for Harry.

He doesn’t expect Harry to crowd him from behind and follow him up the stairs, but he’s learned, by now, to stop being surprised.

Harry follows him, silently, all the way up the stairs, through the hallway, into Niall’s bedroom, and across the threshold into the walk-in closet. And while Niall heads over to the dresser to root around for some socks Harry might like, Harry noses his way through the rest of the closet.

“This yours?” Harry asks, and Niall turns around to find him, eyebrow raised and smile sneaking across his face, holding up a tiny leather skirt. It actually would fit Niall, probably, if he tried.

“‘Course it isn’t.”

“That’s too bad, I think you’d fill it out well.”

“Shut up and put it back. S’not mine, it was Hailee’s. She left it and forgot to— never got the chance to take it back.”

“It’s Saint Laurent,” says Harry, voice a little softer now, but still playing. “Expensive. She probably wants it back.”

There are a thousand ways Niall could respond, but, for some reason he goes with: “You can have one couriered over to her then, if you’re so worried. S’not like it would cost you anything. Bend over backwards for you at bloody Saint Laurent, don’t they? Start a nice rumor, too: _Harry Styles Makes A Move On Former Fellow Band Member’s Ex Girlfriend._ Would be right on brand for you. And you’d come out looking like the good guy, somehow.”

It hangs in the air for a moment. For a million years. Then Harry places the skirt back on the shelf, gentle and quiet, and says, “what happened, Niall?”

“Nothin’ happened.” Is what Niall says. _You should’ve asked me that three weeks ago_ is what Niall wants to say.

“You don’t blow up like that over nothing, Niall, come on,” Harry crosses the space between them, but doesn’t come too close, leaves Niall his bubble. “Who are you mad at, me or Hailee?”

The answer is _you_ . The question should be _who broke your heart, me or Hailee?_

Niall doesn’t answer, though. He can’t figure out how to speak, can’t remember what he wants to say, doesn’t know how to explain eight years of emotion in just a few sentences. Can’t believe this is happening in his fucking closet. Symbolic, perhaps, he thinks to himself, and almost laughs.

“Okay,” Harry declares. “It’s me you’re mad at, then.”

“No, Haz—”

“No, don’t stop me. I mean, it’s not like I don’t know, you know. It’s not like I can’t imagine what you guys feel, all of you. And it’s not like I don’t feel bad about it.”

“You don’t need to feel bad for—”

“But I do. We’ll talk about that after, though. Can you tell me what’s happened with Hailee? I saw… I heard rumors that you guys broke up but I wasn’t sure... What happened?”

“You keep tabs on me now, Harry? What, have you got a Google Alert set up for Niall Horan?”

“Give up the act, Niall. Talk to me.” Harry’s just the right mix of stern and soft, then, perfectly crafted to make Niall weak in the knees, weak in the heart, weak just about everywhere that matters. It wouldn’t be the first time. Niall doesn’t want to let it work this time.

“You don’t have to keep tabs on me, you know. You could just fucking call.”

“That’s what this is all about?” Harry looks like he knows, but keeps talking anyway. “I called today,  didn’t I? And you could call me, too. Friendship’s a two way street, Niall.”

“Ah, cheers, call and get your assistant? Call and get a memo saying you’ve changed your number? Great idea, Harry, thanks so much for thinking of it.”

“Fuck off. You know my assistant doesn’t answer my personal calls, I haven’t changed my number since I spoke to you last, _and_ you have my WhatsApp, my email, the address of every house I own—you have every possible way to get in contact with me, Niall. I literally made a WhatsApp because you and Liam bullied me into it; I literally made it to talk to you lot and the group chat’s been fucking silent. In fact, I’m pretty sure you, Liam, and Louis have a seperate group chat without me, but that’s not what this is really about and we both know it, come on.” Harry sounds mad enough that Niall’s starting to regret picking this fight. He can’t stop, though.

“You have the same for me, Haz. And you had the opportunity—you were in LA when I had my gig. And London, too. You were on the list, like. You could’ve…”

“Oh I was on _the list_ , was I? How nice of you, Niall, to put me on _the list_ but not actually invite me. You didn’t call, you didn’t text, you didn’t let me know you wanted me there—”

“You’re my best mate, Harry, you _know_ I wanted you there.”

“Oh, your best mate, am I? Do you refuse to call _all_ of your best mates, or is that just me? Shall I ask Willie when the last time he heard from you was? Deo? Tara?”

“Deo, Tara, and Willie all call me, too. They all bother to show up to my bleedin’ shows.”

“You didn’t come to my show in Dublin. Is that what best mates do?”

“No, I went in LA. And you didn’t have time to even say hello to me after.”

“You had a thousand people with you, Niall. You brought a fucking entourage, and they were constantly surrounding you, like some kind of weird protection against me.”

“Why the fuck would I want protection against you, Harry, you’re my _best mate_.”

“Stop saying that.”

“It’s true.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, t’is. You’ve been my best mate for eight years, Harry, and that doesn’t change just because you’ve started acting like a git most of the time.”

“You called Hailee your best mate, too,” says Harry, and that puts a stop to the yelling, leaves them both standing there, chests heaving like they’ve run a mile, staring at each other in stunned silence until Harry says, “on Instagram for her birthday. You called her one of your best friends. And the loveliest person.”

“Yeah, I did.” Niall risks taking a step forward, shortening the gap between him and Harry. “Why do you remember the exact wording?”

“I’ve got a good memory.”

“No you haven’t.”

“I’ve got a good memory when it comes to you.”

There’s no arguing over that, they both know. And they’ve both known for a long time, the way Harry always forgets birthdays if they’re not in his calendar, the way parties slip his mind if he doesn’t write them down, the way he forgets to return borrowed shirts and borrowed cash and the time he completely forgot he was meant to watch the food Liam left on the hot plate in the bus and let it burn. And the way he always remembers Niall’s order at McDonald’s and brings it back for him, and the way he knows Niall’s shoe size and shirt size and sometimes used to pick things up he’d think Niall would like and they’d be sized perfectly, the way he remembers what kind of toothpaste Niall likes and what kind he hates and how he likes his tea as hot as possible without burning, his sandwiches without lettuce, his pillows soft but his mattress firm. Harry has a perfect memory when it comes to Niall, and he’s known it forever without letting himself understand it.

“Can we talk, now?” Harry finally asks, and Niall’s not sure how long they’ve been silent. “Without the shouting?”

“Yeah,” Niall’s heart feels a little lighter now that Harry’s voice is soft again. He likes it like that, low and slow, gentle and familiar and safe. He cards a hand through his hair as Harry shuffles his feet against the soft carpet, still bare. “Yeah, let’s.”

Harry takes a deep breath, eyes flickering from the floor to Niall and back again. Then, “I’m sorry I didn’t come to your shows, and I’m sorry I’m hard to get in touch with. And I’m sorry that you’re hurting right now, but please don’t take it out on me. I—I know I deserve some anger from you, but not all this.” He gestures vaguely around the closet, in the direction of the skirt, still folded neatly on a shelf. Niall’d forgotten that was how all this started. “Not the stuff that has to do with Hailee.”

Once again, there are a million things Niall could say. He could apologize, too, or he could accept Harry’s apology; he could scream, he could cry, he could kick Harry out and close off his heart and go back to never speaking to him, because that would be easiest. Instead, and he’ll never understand where the courage comes from, he says, “you know none of this is about Hailee, right?”

Harry hums, thoughtful, and Niall can tell he knows where this is going. It gives him the confidence to carry on.

“Hailee, she’s—she’s great, I mean, and we had fun and all, but, like, it ended because I couldn’t bring myself to care. I tried so hard, too. I wanted to like her more than I actually did, like. If that makes sense.”

“Sure it does.” Encouraging. Gentle. Familiar. Harry wants to hear what Niall has to say next, and Niall can tell.

“And I feel like. Uh. I feel like I couldn’t bring myself to care because I knew… I started to realize that I always knew that I—that I want someone else. That I’ve wanted someone else for a really long time.”

“Someone, erm, in particular?” Asks Harry, even though he already knows the answer and his hands are shaking and his heart is hammering and he can almost feel the way Niall’s breath catches in his throat when he nods and says, “yeah,” hoarse and wide-eyed and absolutely terrified.

Harry says “who?” and Niall says “you.” at the exact same time and there it is. Finally.

It’s been coming for a long time, they both know. Eight years of late nights curled up together in teeny tiny bunks, of sneaking into each other’s hotel rooms and cuddling in king sized beds when they didn’t need to, of swallowing feelings when they saw the other take someone home, of using their time on stage as an excuse to get close, all up in each other’s faces, to rile each other up only to go back to the hotel and wank over it, pretending they were thinking about anyone but each other. Eight years of avoiding each other when they couldn’t keep their emotions in check, eight years of writing music together, about each other, without saying it aloud. Eight years of ignoring furtive glances and goosebumps when they touched and chalking everything up to just being best friends, even though best friends don’t share beds for no reason, don’t get jealous hearing about each other’s hookups, don’t call at 3am, from halfway across the world, because they can’t sleep without hearing each other breathing. Eight years of dancing around a moment like this one, finally, in Niall’s closet, after swiping right on each other on a sodding app.

It’s like the universe is yelling in their faces: _if you two aren’t smart enough to do this yourselves, I’ll keep pushing you toward each other until you get my hint._ They’ve got her hint.

The silence doesn’t last long, although it feels like it could be a million years. It feels like that a lot when they’re alone together, like time speeds up and stands still at once, like all of it was created just for them. But it’s only a few seconds, maybe, before Harry, breathless and rushed and wrecked, says, “yeah, yeah. Me too.”

“I—what?” Asks Niall, who was expecting a gentle rejection, a lecture about how this is a bad idea and an ever worse PR move. Instead he gets Harry taking a few steps forward, closing the gap between them, and grabbing Niall’s hands in his own.

Harry. Harry and his too long hair that he refused to cut even when it got gross at the ends and Niall started finding strands of it in his suitcase, his bed, sometimes his lunch. Harry and his dumbshit tattoos, laurel leaves that Niall so desperately wants to get his mouth on, a heart on his sleeve that makes Niall’s knees feel weak, a butterfly on his chest that accentuates how fit he is. Harry and his too-long legs and clumsy gait and warm body and perfectly toned arms. Harry and his stupid diets, his dumbshit cleanses, his pointless sleep tracking app and his closet full of beanies for the gym. Harry and his low voice, his delicious accent, his green eyes that show up in Niall’s dreams sometimes. Harry and the way he remembers everyone’s name, makes everyone feel like the most important person in the world, makes Niall feel like Christmas morning every single day. Harry. His best friend. The love of his life, he thinks.

And Niall. Niall, with his darkening hair that he says makes him look grown up, but Harry just thinks makes him look more handsome. Niall and his stubble finally filling in, stubble that Harry wants scratching his face, dragging over his jaw, his neck, in between his thighs. Niall and his accent that gets thicker every day, his laugh that makes everyone else within earshot smile, that makes Harry’s heart soar. Niall and his gorgeous glasses, his perfectly tailored jeans that hug his bum just right, his dumbshit paddy cap that Harry can’t get enough of. Niall and the way he instantly makes everyone feel at home, instantly makes friends, Niall and the way everyone instantly falls in love with him. Niall. Harry’s best friend. The love of his life, he knows.

“It’s always been you,” Harry says finally, his hands warm and big around Niall’s. He’s staring right into his eyes and Niall’s sure he would fall over if Harry wasn’t holding him up. “It just… it took me a long time to realise that, I think. Or at least, to come to terms with it.”

“I thought,” Niall swallows a lump in his throat, or maybe it’s his heart. “Thought it was just me feelin’ that way.”

“So did I. But then I saw you—erm, I saw you on Raya and I saw your profile and I thought about someone else swiping right on you, I thought about you talking to someone else and I—I couldn’t. I needed to message you. I needed to, like, get you off the app.”

Niall cracks a smile, despite the fact that he feels like he could cry at any moment. “You’re sounding a little possessive, Styles.”

“I am,” Harry rubs his thumb over the back of Niall’s hand. “Not in a weird way, like. I just. I realised then how much I want you. I mean, I had realised it before, with Barbara, and Celine, and then I saw those pictures with Hailee but I. I swallowed it until that stupid fucking app. But I can’t swallow it anymore, Niall. I—I want you.”

For once, there’s nothing Niall can say. There’s nothing he can say, no song he can write, no cryptic tweet he can pen, no possible way to respond that would accurately sum up how he feels when Harry lets go of his hand, cups his cheek, and waits for something, anything, from him. There’s nothing he can do except the one thing he’s wanted to do for eight years, the one thing he hasn’t let himself think about doing for eight years.

Instead of saying anything, Niall boosts himself up onto his tiptoes, wraps his free arm around Harry’s neck, and pulls him down for a kiss.

And Harry kisses back.

It’s not perfect, like. Niall’s stubble scratches a little more than Harry usually likes, although he’s sure he can get used to it, and Harry’s just tall enough that Niall has to crane his neck in an uncomfortable way, but he’s willing to deal with a crick tomorrow morning for this. Their teeth clash once or twice, and when their noses bump Harry pulls away with a giggle and Niall’s sure, positive, that his entire life has been leading up to this moment. If Harry wasn’t holding on to him, he’d surely be dead by now.

They beam at each other, Niall’s arm still around Harry’s neck and Harry’s around Niall’s tiny waist, pulling him flush to his body, for a hundred years before either of them says anything. And even then, it’s Niall, voice raw like he’s been asleep for hours, saying, “we should do that again.”

Harry laughs out loud, the most beautiful sound Niall’s ever heard, and drops a kiss onto Niall’s nose.

“No, no,” Niall doesn’t care that he sounds like a toddler begging for candy, “on m’lips, you git.”

Harry acquiesces, presses a gentle kiss to Niall’s mouth, then, with his lips still brushing against his, says, “we have forever, like. To kiss like this.”

Niall hums in agreement, says, “we shouldn’t put it off, though.”

“No,” Harry agrees. “But maybe just for one minute? To get those socks? My feet are still cold.”

 

####

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first fic i've ever posted, i hope everyone likes it! i originally posted this on tumblr but thought it should go here, too, i guess. i hope that's okay! the title comes from gavin james' new album only ticket home. sorry @ hailee for using you to further my plot. you go girl, wherever you are.
> 
> you can come say hi and talk about narry with me on tumblr @ skeletonarry! :)


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